


Spiralling

by mens_enim_formicularum



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Insane Wilbur Soot, L’Manburg, Maybe - Freeform, This isnt a vent i promise, guys i swear im not projecting, im not projecting, is this just me monologuing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:21:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mens_enim_formicularum/pseuds/mens_enim_formicularum
Summary: In which Tommy watches as Wilbur comes undone.Wilbur is burning, and shaking, and freezing, and everything is still all at once. It’s not always felt like this, he was solid once. But the shift was so gradual he didn’t notice until he couldn’t stop taking trips to that god damn room.
Kudos: 20





	Spiralling

**Author's Note:**

> this isnt a vent. im not projecting. im not projecting guys. i swear ahahhaha. :}}} 
> 
> also btw im probably not going to be updating many works in the near future, because even though its winter break i am going through some SHIT. not vibing. so also not writing. its all good though, and i hope to get back to regular posting soon!

Tommy was looking up to Wilbur almost perpetually. Wilbur was so strong and just and sure in himself, he couldn't help but aspire to be like him. He tagged along, always the unsure right hand man who couldn’t be taken seriously and wasn’t much more than a political pawn. But he was fine with that. He was doing it for his brother. 

He died for his brother once. 

They were at war.

War was a constant though. It was always there, nipping at their heels whenever they paid heed to a thought of rest. War kept them going, and war inevitably was one of the few things keeping them afloat. 

Wilbur did not see war as a constant. That is to say, it did not keep him going. It boiled him, like a scrap of hide, holes splitting him apart bit by bit over time. War was burning and twisting and eating its way into his flesh, burrowing deep inside him and draining him of all who he was. War was yelling for him to do it, even if he didn’t know what _it_ was quite yet. 

Wilbur, Tommy, and Techno may have believed pogtopia would bring them together, living alongside each other and working towards a common goal. It did quite the opposite, quietly feeding the pits of resentment forming in each of their guts. 

Tommy was still gazing upwards. Wishing to become a hero like Will. Wishing to become him. He lost himself in his idolization, failing to notice the cracks forming in Wilburs psyche. Wilbur let his villainy seep into Tommy bit by bit, poisoning the ones he loved with his twisted barks of laughter and harsh smiles and whispers at night. 

He was fine though. 

This was fine. 

By the time Tommy saw the state of disrepair Wilbur's mind was in, it was too late to help. 

“Are we the bad guys, Tommy?” Wilbur had spoken at once, voice splitting the cool silence of the air. His tone was genuine, and sickeningly calm. Tommy was taken aback, seeing all at once just how far his brother had strayed from sanity. 

As time went on from there, it became terribly clear he was trapped. He remained useless, bringing no valuable skill to their small group. He had no power over Wilbur. He had no way to save his brother. 

Then there was the festival. Wilbur sat before that wicked button, in that cruel city of his own design, twisting his mind apart like wax until he had nothing but glee and resentment left inside. His father, slowly speaking to him, was a stark contrast to Wilbur, whole and honest and calm.

It was done. The city was dead before him, his L’manburg. His unfinished symphony, the simple melody he had dreamt up and built in the soft earth, turned to a harsh minor discord ringing out into the world around it. His bastardized creation was killed by his own hand, as it should be. 

The blade was hot and burning in his chest. 


End file.
